


Wanting / does not look good on me.

by Hesiones



Category: Food Fantasy (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, based off that one spring festival event story hm, first chapter and possibly second chapter are general/teen/don't have any explicit stuff, hm, so apparently the first porn i'll ever write is going to be food porn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-02
Updated: 2019-06-02
Packaged: 2019-12-30 18:21:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18320723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hesiones/pseuds/Hesiones
Summary: The third time she passed him on her fifteen day Spring Festival bar crawl, he just had to ask her.“Are you ever sober?” Boston called after her as she patted his claw with a vague greeting on her way to the counter. Vodka swayed to a quick, graceful halt that must’ve taken years of tipsy practice (or not; she wasn’thuman) to master.“Are you ever satisfied?” she drawled back.





	1. an alcove

**Author's Note:**

> During the Spring Festival event, one of the stories I'd manage to roll detailed Boston (or Steak? I'm confused) meeting a (drunk) Vodka for the first time during an arm wrestling event, and I'm pretty sure that the people watching started jeering him for having to use full strength on a girl, so I think she (almost? nearly? basically?) beat him. Anyways I DO remember some scene ending with Vodka leaving happy-drunk and Boston staring after her. Another food soul teased him for staring. or maybe it was steak. whatever. anyways.  
> Fic title also comes from a Melissa Stein poem: "Crush".  
> This first chapter and likely the second chapter won't be explicit.

 

> ## Am I some kind of ghost? A few roses  
>  blown open.
> 
>    MELISSA STEIN, FROM “VOWS”
> 
>  

      The third time she passed him on her fifteen day Spring Festival bar crawl, he just had to ask her.

      “Are you ever sober?” Boston called after her as she patted his claw with a vague greeting on her way to the counter. Vodka swayed to a quick, graceful halt that must’ve taken years of tipsy practice (or not; she wasn’t _human_ ) to master.

      “Are you ever satisfied?” she drawled back with a slight toss of her silver head, and walked on.

      “Hm,” he grunted, amused despite himself, and leaned back against his cushioned booth seat by the wall. Fair point. Boston knew his emotional range, which ran mostly from angry to mildly irritated to occasionally nonplussed, was easy to read. He watched while Vodka swigged from her own flask and ordered a drink at the same time. How that lush could have possibly beat Steak at arm wrestling, he had almost no idea.

      A minute after Boston returned to his appetizer of chilled watercress tossed in sweet soy sauce and sprinkled with sesame seeds, someone plopped smoothly onto the seat across from him with a sigh. From the cool air swirling around his usually warm legs, Boston knew it was Vodka without looking.

      “Now, now, Andre,” she cooed to the eagle perched on her shoulder, “don’t fret, I ordered some rabbit morsels for you, and if they don’t bring them within the next ten minutes, I shall have words with them, eh?”

      “What are you doing here?” Boston asked, setting his empty appetizer plate aside for the waiter to take. Vodka turned her attention from her preening bird to look at him with one pale eye.

      “I have yet to try the mulberry wine,” she declared in answer, continuing to ruffle Andre’s white feathers until Boston grew impatient enough with this half-truth to open his mouth, “and one does not often encounter food souls with no interest in contracts or bartering services.” She raised an eyebrow. “Even though I am one such food soul myself.”

      Boston narrowed his eyes. “So why did you go rogue?”

      Vodka waved a white-gloved hand airily in dismissal. “I’ve had my fill of strife,” she stated simply, and took another quick swig from her flask. Boston uncrossed his arms.

      “Boston Lobster,” he said, offering his hand across the table.

      “And what is your reason?” she inquired as she shook his hand. Her grip, he noted, was again very firm.

      “I’m tired of humans,” he answered gruffly because she hadn’t loosened her grip yet, but with a tilt of her head, Vodka let go. From the arch of her brow, she’d probably already had an inkling about his _reasons_ to begin with, which irked him a little. His internal body temperature increased by about half a degree centigrade. The chill breath of her following laugh could have lowered his temperature back down to his normal forty degrees Celsius had she not inclined her head back a little while doing so, baring her neck in a slight curve that caught and held the lantern lights. If anything, his temperature rose another half degree as her laugh lightly shook her… chest (Why that neckline??? But his neckline plunged even deeper, if anything, so he really couldn’t comment...) in a distracting manner.

      “Vodka,” she introduced herself back, that laugh still lingering in her cheek, “Though you already knew that. Why brave the Spring Festival if you are weary of humans, then?”

      The waiter brought over Boston’s drunken shrimp and Vodka’s mulberry wine, but poured two glasses instead of one.

      “Drinks on me,” Vodka explained, her rare smile gracious, and raised her glass in a mock toast before taking a slow, slow sip, and his vision narrowed for a second to this force of nature staining her lips dark with fermented berries, her eyes closing like a kiss. Boston wished, not for the first time, that he hadn’t been created with these irritating, useless human urges.

      “I have a few old acquaintances to meet,” he heard himself reply late when she eventually reopened her heavy-lidded eyes. Her face stilled a moment – wait, had he said something wrong? – as the furrow where people try to bury pain surfaced between her brows, but then, as if with a fresh blanket of snow, she smoothed it back over, crooking her mouth with a sigh.

      “To acquaintances,” Vodka toasted again, her accent a little throatier from the bitter smoke of alcohol and grief, “old and new.” And this time, Boston raised his glass to touch hers.


	2. spring

 

> ## I can’t even control  
>  my own starving.
> 
> - MELISSA STEIN, from "GROUNDHOG DAY"

       Of course, contrary to whatever Boston Lobster may have surmised about her, Vodka was more sober more often than not. Certainly being able to hold her drink extraordinarily well also helped, but she usually had work to do, and hadn’t originally been a heavy drinker (relative to the habits of her home region) anyways.

      And as for tonight, getting drunk would work against what she had in mind, Vodka thought as she discreetly admired the lean musculature that Boston Lobster’s v-neck generously showcased. He would look very nice laid flushed and panting under her. She bet he was loud in bed. Very nice indeed. _Stop_.

      Vodka took a sip of mulberry wine and absentmindedly fed Andre a morsel of rabbit as she unfortunately went back to thinking about Boston’s long, white hair splayed across her sheets. And, she suspected, with Spicy Gluten as his friend, Boston Lobster would have no trouble going about pleasing a lady... _Stop!_

      “Let’s get straight to business,” Vodka said, putting her glass down abruptly. “Someone tipped me off about a person attending the Spring festivities this year who’s connected with the increase in fallen angel populations. He seems to wander around Tierra as he pleases, so he is usually rather hard to pin down. I’m sure you have other priorities right now, but he does or at least has worked with scientists who have experimented with food souls and contracts in the past, which you do have an interest in, correct?”

      “The _fuck?_ ”

      She held up one finger. “So I have a proposition for you, Boston Lobster.” _Proposition_. No. Useless thought. Especially since the person in front of her was turning a shade of narrow-eyed reddish angry. “Since you don’t seem to be as enthused about the festivities as my comrades, whose fun I can’t refuse them, and the person of interest is someone I alone cannot overpower, should the occasion arise, I would like to hire you to assist me with locating or at least learning a few things about him these two weeks.”

      As soon as Vodka let her finger down, two things hard and indented pinned her legs back against the booth with a thump other customers wouldn’t notice in the tavern’s constant hubbub.

      “How the fuck did you learn about me?” Boston Lobster hissed. She didn’t bother to struggle. This was not how she’d have preferred her stockings to be ripped, but alas.

      “I snuck into the Nevras Academy special collections,” she replied simply. “I suggest taking this conversation somewhere more private, shall we?”

      He released his grip to stand up from his seat. “Move,” he hissed, arms crossed. Vodka took her time paying the bill (and remembering that the Light Kingdom didn’t practice tipping for service) just to be petty - Boston Lobster slapped his portion on the table to prevent her from treating him, “So I don’t owe you anything, got it?” - and flounced out of the bar, Boston harrumphing behind her and Andre still perched on her shoulder unperturbed.

      Vodka huffed a little in exasperation as they made their way through the Spring Festival crowds. Of all the times and all the people her hundred-year dry spell could’ve chosen to bite her in the ass for, it had to be this grumbling, dangerous - and understandably angry at her - hot mess? Well, the time and place was okay: the relative anonymity that large crowded festivals offered was convenient for benevolent one-night-stands, but her body could’ve fallen in lust with a more agreeable person, _da_? And this sexual awareness of him wasn’t a one-time thing. It was there when she was drunk a few days ago, when she was more sober the following morning as she and the Double Scoop twins happened to pass him again, etcetera… Either way, he would be a useful food soul to keep tabs on, and all the things she’d told him up to now were true.

      And if it wasn’t reciprocated, then nothing would come of her urge. Except perhaps her. By herself. Alone.

      Vodka huffed again. _Focus, soldier._

      Of course, it was a little hard to focus when they turned alone onto the residential street where she and her friends rented a small townhouse, and harder to focus when she took out the key to unlock the door, with Boston standing quietly next to her.

      The inside of the house rested in the comfort of relative darkness, undisturbed except for the faint sounds of the festival outskirts two blocks away. Vodka flicked a switch in the next room, and a single electric lightbulb dangling from the ceiling began to sputter on, illuminating a table and some scattered hardwood chairs. After shutting the front door, Boston wandered into the dining room.

      “Take a seat,” Vodka gestured, following her own directive. Boston crossed his arms (again) and remained standing.

      “Start talking,” he growled. Whatever.

      “I know that you generally live in a cave near Gloriville,” she began, just piling on the most educated of her guesses (since he’d basically confirmed one was right at the bar), “I know you at some point escaped a testing facility of some sort, and I’ve seen you interact with certain other food souls during the festival.”

      Vodka rested her elbow on her chair and leaned back. “Aside from that, I don’t know anything else about you, nor do I have any interest in whatever you may be up to.” _Unless I find your plans distasteful._ “You’ve never really made yourself known, so there almost aren’t any mentions of you in whatever records I’ve seen or heard of. i just thought that you might be interested in hunting down a food soul who has experimented on other food souls before, something I figured you might be keen on stopping, _da_?”

      (She noticed him glancing down at her decolletage before he opened his mouth to reply.)

      “Who is this food soul?”

      “Whiskey,” Vodka answered, tilting her head sideways so he could get a better view of her chest, and watched the way his chest heaved in response. “Brown hair, brown eyes, pale skin, glasses, usually wears brown business clothes and has a brown leather briefcase with him. Ear piercings, always smiling.”

      Andre squawked at her and flew off to one of his many spots in the house. Vodka raised an eyebrow at Boston. “Any other questions?”

      “Does this house have air conditioning or a fan or something?”

      Vodka raised her other eyebrow. Boston did look a little uncomfortable. Even sweating? “How are you hot in _this_ weather?” she asked rhetorically, but waved one gloved hand airily to start a cool breeze going. Boston relaxed slightly.

      “Alright,” he said, gruff. “I’m in, but I got my own business to deal with, so I won’t come running whenever called.”

      “Good. Let’s work on logistics, then.”

      He grunted assent, taking off his light jacket, much to Vodka’s delight. As he fanned himself with it, she noticed that he smelled like cold saltwater.

      “Well then,” she announced, stretching her arms above her head as she rose from her seat, “I shall get some pen and paper, so stay put.” Her fingers brushed against his lean but muscled arm a little on purpose when she sashayed past, and when she came back, he was sitting on the table, his long legs dangling and the flickering electric light bathing his corded shoulders in an incandescent glow. Vodka had to pause for a moment to take the sight in before stepping back into the light.

      She really couldn’t help smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's already been more than a month since I posted the first chapter up, so I'm just going to post this without much editing hm. If the writing is stilted, please do let me know, though! I prefer editing on the fly to be honest.  
> Also why don't more fanfics talk explicitly about girls having thirst?

**Author's Note:**

> wow i'm so hetero... i also want slow burn vodka/b52... hm... vodka isn't even my favorite fs (i hate her outfit but i guess it isn't an east Asian game without fanservice ??? whatever) but i love cynics who have gone through bloody revolutions before so


End file.
